The Gutenberg Incident
by Fanless
Summary: [FanlessXmy-name-is-lancelot collaboration] Crowley's gotten himself killed...again. The only way to get back to the South Downs (and Aziraphale) is through a mission to defeat a new agent from Heaven. The catch? Hastur's along for the ride. Two demons, one car and an unfair share of unresolved tension. [Central Heating shipfic]


_Haaaappy Central Heating month, everyone! Here's the first chapter of a collaboration between my-name-is-lancelot on tumblr (who doesn't have an FF account) and myself. It's probably the only actually humorous Hastur/Crowley fic out there, which probably says a lot about us. Ahem._

* * *

**Ch. 1: All For A Bible**

It was the first day of spring.

Which wasn't necessarily ground-breaking news to the inhabitants of the planet Earth. It had been marked on calendars all over the world for quite some time. There had been thousands of other first-day-of-springs pre-dating _this_ first day of spring.

The only thing marking this day as special was the fact that it was Crowley and Aziraphale's first day of spring living together in South-Downs.

And they were celebrating by cleaning.

"We've only been living here for a month – how the bloody hell are your books already dusty?" Crowley complained.

The demon was not exaggerating – a thin film of dust covered Aziraphale's bookshelf and treasured collection of first-editions and unique findings.

Aziraphale ignored him.

"It's like you're the patron saint of dust or something."

"I'm not a saint, dear, I'm an angel. There's a difference."

"Patron angel of dust, then."

"There's no such thing," Aziraphale sniffed.

"Why don't you just miracle the dust away or something?"

"That would be cheating." Aziraphale was elevated on a step-ladder, inspecting the collection on the top-shelf. "Make yourself useful and give me a hand with these, will you?" The angel found he was losing his patience with the demon (which wasn't a rare thing, but being an angel he felt slightly guilty about it).

Crowley glanced at the stack of books in Aziraphale's hand and made a noise of disgust. "Are you insane? That'sssss a _bible_ on the bottom. As in _His Holy Word_. As in _IF I TOUCH THAT BAD THINGSSSSS COULD HAP—"_

"Dear, really, you're making a big deal over nothing." Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "It's _The Message_; 'His Holy Word' is probably diluted enough in this edition, I highly doubt it will have any effect on you."

"I'm not going to rissssssk it."

Aziraphale shrugged and promptly dropped the pile of books without a second glance, his attention focused on the remaining books on the shelf. An "Ow—" was followed by a tumbling sound, and then silence. Aziraphale glanced down to see an unconscious Crowley sprawled on the floor with the books.

"Oh _really_, Crowley, now you're just being melodramatic," Aziraphale sighed, stepping down from the ladder. He knelt beside the body, lightly patting the demon's face as though that would jerk him out of unconsciousness. "Wake up, will you."

And then the angel noticed that the demon wasn't breathing.

He stood, opening and closing his mouth a few times as he tried to make sense of what had just happened.

"Oh _dear._"

* * *

Crowley came to shouting. It was a useful skill that he'd learned over the centuries of interacting with Aziraphale. In the days before they'd come to their by-now-somewhat-famed Agreement, he'd often found himself in the unenviable position of getting knocked out in the middle of an argument and having to continue where he left off after regaining consciousness.

"Aziraphale—" he began. His voice died abruptly, though, as he realized that he was no longer sitting on the floor of his newish (to him, at least) cottage. He was very emphatically no longer anywhere near the cottage. In fact…

"Hello, Crowley."

"You've got to be kidding me," said Crowley instinctively.

"Excuse me?"

Hurriedly Crowley cleared his throat. He recognized where he was now, all right; it was a place that he tried to spend as little time in as possible. "_Some_ things never change," he muttered under his breath.

Dagon's brow furrowed. "What is that supposed to mean?"

The look on Crowley's face made it apparent that he had not meant to utter that aloud. "I, um. Well. I just didn't. Er." He blinked. "You're still Lucifer's secretary, is all."

Dagon's lip curled. "I'm Lucifer's _what_?"

Crowley wanted to smack himself. Apparently some things really never changed. "As-assistant, is what I meant to say. Yeah."

Dagon rose from his seat and was looming in front of Crowley in an instant. "I may be doing deskwork, boy, but I am still a Duke of Hell, and last I heard you were just a _knight_." He practically spat the last word out. "Don't make me prove myself, boy. Because I could easily wipe you from existence." The lighting in the room dimmed theatrically as if Dagon needed them to confirm just how valid his threat was.

"Um. Right. Okay."

Looking satisfied, Dagon returned to his seat and focused on some papers strewn about the desk in front of him. He glanced up after a few minutes after realizing Crowley was still there. "…Can I help you?"

"Do you think I could maybe talk to the big guy?"

"'The big guy' as in Lucifer?"

"…Yeah."

A short, raspy sound that almost passed as a laugh escaped from Dagon's throat. "You think Lucifer would agree to have an audience with you? _You_? You're not exactly in Hell's "good" books, you know."

"I do beg to differ," echoed a new and debatably welcome voice. Crowley looked up in a mixture of hope and trepidation, recognizing the unique intonation of his Emperor.

His face fell.

Lucifer was there, all right, but not as the suave, slightly sinister figure he had last seen him in the flesh (as it were) as. Not by a long shot. His hair, ordinarily so sleek and well-kept, was almost entirely covered by a mass of feathers, glitter and material that had surely not come from anything organic. The plain, casually-thrown-on-yet-tasteful suit he liked to affect on business had been replaced by… Crowley didn't know _what _to call it. It looked, he thought dazedly, like the result of rough sex between a Brazilian parade and a menagerie of parrots in the middle of a collision between Madonna and Lady Gaga's tour buses. And the shoes. Normally they were crisp and tidy, but now they were… big. Very big. High. And heavy-looking. And covered in sequins the size of donut holes.

Not waiting for a greeting, Lucifer swept by Dagon and laid a hand on Crowley's shoulder. It was pocked with ostentatiously fake jewels the size of tumorous spiders.

"And what might you have been wanting, m'boy? Come, come, we may be immortal but schedules wait for no man-shaped being, eh?"

"Urh," said Crowley. At least, he thought that was what he had meant to say.

"Well, aren't you boring," Lucifer deadpanned, his outrageous attire materializing into something reminiscent of an Armani suit. "I thought the headpiece added a nice touch."

Dagon was thankful that Lucifer's attention was fixed on Crowley and not him, because he was blushing profusely (though he would never admit it).

"Uh, yes. Very… very something." Crowley, meanwhile, was thankful for the sudden switch. It was marginally less intimidating to ask for favors when you weren't being stared at by blinking neon pasties. "Your Majesty, I was wondering if you could, um, maybe see your way clear to reincorporating me ASAP? I do have pressing duties to attend to Topside, after all, and—"

"Crowley," said Lucifer with a let-out breath, not quite a sigh. He smiled and patted the junior demon's shoulder. "Crowley, Crowley, Crowley."

That didn't sound good. Crowley tried not to wince.

"As much as I appreciate your keenness to get back into fighting form, I must remind you that this is the third time in two centuries that you have found reason to request a new body—"

"That time in Florida was not my fault," muttered Crowley.

"— and as much as I would like to just sign you off and let you be on your merry physical way, our resources are hardly unlimited. I only have so many corporation technicians, after all, and most of their time must needs be focused on rehabilitating our personnel stationed in the war zones of Earth. And you'll pardon me for saying it, of course, but…" He raised a brow. "Your current accommodations are anything but incommodiously dangerous, from what I can tell."

Crowley tried not to let his ears burn. As humid and obnoxiously fire-toned as Dagon's office was, it still wouldn't disguise a blush of the magnitude that he was in danger of developing. "Well… Your Majesty, I _am _the only permanent field agent you have in the Western nations… I'd hate to let things fall into the hands of the opposition simply because I wasn't there to prevent it and all. You know. Wouldn't look too good… I mean, bad. Would it."

"Yes. Well." Lucifer inspected his fingernails, appearing disinterested. "I could have arrangements made for a new body, but…"

Crowley suppressed a groan. There was always some sort of deal to be made with his kind.

"…You'll have to earn it, of course." Lucifer began slowly pacing the floor, making a show of tapping his chin with his finger as though deep in thought.

Inwardly, Crowley groaned. Lucifer seemed to be enjoying himself, and that never boded well.

"What was the name of that one demon… Name started with an H, I think. Hamstur? Hastey?"

"Hastur?" Dagon volunteered from behind Lucifer.

"That's the guy!" Lucifer snapped his fingers, eyes lighting up. He put a stop to his pacing and faced Crowley. "I understand you two have a bit of a history together, no?"

"A bit, yes." Of the sort that usually ended up being made into bad cable-network films, thought Crowley sourly. "I don't know him _particularly _well, though."

Lucifer clapped his hands together with enthusiasm. "Ex-cel-lenté! Here's what I need you to do." Any of the amusement that had been on Lucifer's face before was now replaced with a wry twist of his lips. "There's been talk of a powerful new holy agent on Earth. Naturally, this doesn't bode well for us folks downstairs. If you want to be granted a new body, I need you," Lucifer took a step closer to where Crowley stood, "to go," another step, "and stop this agent. Get rid of this agent. Completely _annihilate_ this agent."

"But, Lord, how powerful exactly is this agent—"

"Nu-u-uh, not done yet. Don't interrupt, it's unbecoming." At this point Lucifer's face was inches away from Crowley's, his dark eyes glaring into Crowley's yellow. "You won't be alone. Because Hastur will be accompanying you." His mouth slid into a crooked grin; his pleasure in devising this plan made it obvious he knew the duke and the knight didn't get along well.

"But, Lord," began Crowley again, wincing at his own daring (he was fairly sure Lucifer wouldn't smite him with unholy ice here and now, considering he was the only demon around who had as much experience Topside. But _only _fairly). "I thought Duke Hastur was under probation? Or… or something like that? Grounded? You know?"

"Hastur? No, he's long since worked off his sentence. I took time off for bad behavior." Lucifer grinned. It was almost childlike in its innocence. Crowley shuddered. "He really does enjoy his job, you know. I thought it rather a shame to waste him behind a desk. He's been spending a good deal of time in America these days, actually. Thought it best to gain a touch more experience with the modern world, after… well, what happened back then." One last pat on Crowley's shoulder, with just enough added pressure and a subtle curling in of the fingers — clawing slightly — to make the junior demon cringe ever so slightly. "And since _you're _the expert… it would be a fine thing to prove there's no bad blood between you two, wouldn't it?"

Crowley waited, expressionless. Here it came. The sting. The kicker. The tricky little conclusion.

"Of course, I'm sure it would be much too uncomfortable to even consider taking on an assignment with him, considering your history…"

And there it was._ Lucifer, you bastard_, he thought (though not very loudly).

The serene little smile still on his face, Lucifer turned to go.

"Wait." Crowley choked on his own words. "I'll do it. Sir."

Lucifer's step didn't falter.

"Of course you will," he said, and allowed himself to smirk only when he had faded back into what to Crowley and Dagon would appear the shadows in the corner of the office. True, he'd expected him to, if not flatly refuse (because who _would _dare flatly refuse the most powerful malevolent force in the vicinity of the world?), then wriggle his way out of it. But under scrutiny, this sounded like the far more… _entertaining _option.

"The usual meeting place, Crowley. Tomorrow, as you'd reckon it. Don't worry about Hastur… we'll take care of contacting him. All you have to do is show up."

Dagon snapped out of his daze once he realized Lucifer was no longer present, gaze alighting on Crowley. "Well, well. You were fast to accept the boss's terms. Without even knowing all of the details…" His voice trailed off and he pretended to be occupied with the papers on his desk.

He expected Crowley to respond with something along the lines of "_Er, what details are you referring to_?" Crowley, however, simply stared unblinking at the Duke.

"What details, you ask?" Dagon continued, despite the fact that Crowley was deliberately ignoring him. "Why, you must know Hastur has got a death wish for you ever since the- ah- incident."

Still no response.

"He won't stop talking about the schemes and tortures he has plotted up for his revenge; in fact, it's all he talks about these days. He probably dreams about it every night."

Nothing.

"In fact, if I were you, I would be so scared I wouldn't want to go back up there; Hell would be much more pleasant compared to what _he_ has planned for you."

Crowley remained unperturbed.

Dagon gave up. "What are you still doing in my office? _GET. OUT_."

Crowley did what he was known for and sauntered out of the room.

* * *

Approximately five minutes after Lucifer left Dagon's office, Hastur, Duke of Hell, was very rudely awakened.

He was not generally in the habit of sleeping overmuch. A quick doze now and then usually did the trick. Hastur didn't like the way sleep in Hell left you open to molestation, off guard. But every now and then he liked to get a few nods in.

Unfortunately, this time he didn't get many. He had only just been settled down for a good six hours or so when without warning his head was alight with a sudden pain and possibly bleeding.

After swearing roundly, he realized the source of the disturbance: a brick on the floor, with a parchment wrapped around it. He picked it up. He read.

He read again. Then, just to make sure his eyes weren't deceiving him, again.

A moment later, he returned to swearing.


End file.
